


Shaken & Stirred

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Humor, Light-Hearted, M/M, Mild Language, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 04:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13380516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: - Will hates James Bond.  And he was ran over.  And he's feeling sorry for himself.  Can Ethan do anything to improve his day?





	Shaken & Stirred

**Author's Note:**

> \- Narrated by Will. Self-beta'd.
> 
> \- So I saw online this morning that today, Monday 15 January, is meant to be the most depressing day of the year. (http://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/blue-monday-2018-january-blues-9550568?service=responsive ) Now, I have my own reasons for feeling miserable (my father passed away last week - and, no, this is most certainly not to elicit sympathy or anything like that. In fact, I debated over even mentioning it. In the end I decided to simply as a way of... explaining in advance if I'm not around on here much, or don't reply...) and it got me thinking about posting this... bit of lightness... as a way to offer some cheer.
> 
> \- So... Here's to hoping it raises a smile or two.
> 
> \- Enjoy!

=============  
Shaken & Stirred  
by TalithaX  
=============

If he were still alive today, Ian Fleming could kiss my bruised ass.

While I'm at it, the same can be said for Albert Broccoli and each and every one of the so-called actors responsible for bringing the smug, indestructible bastard to life.

Seriously. Confined to the written word and the realm of the reader was bad enough in itself, but splattering him and his nonsensical heroics all over the big screen was just something else again.

Something entirely wrong and, to my mind anyway, quite unforgivable.

James Bond.

Suave. Sophisticated. Superior. Super-human.

Agent Extraordinaire. 

Unrealistic, arrogant, obnoxious, unbelievable asshole.

Even as a child I hated him. From his safari suits and excruciating use of the double entendre, all the way to his one-hundred percent success rate and ability to get out, unscathed, of course, of every threat he ever faced. Despite being a supposed mere mortal, he was more like a super hero and, instead of being impressed by his antics like all my friends were, all I could see when I looked at him was a fraud. In fact, he was no more real or believable to me than Luke Skywalker was.

Given that my father was an accountant and I didn't know a single person in law enforcement, it's not even as though I had any specific reason to doubt Bond's ludicrous antics other than, let's be perfectly blunt here, logic. The good guys didn't always win. They couldn't. History, along with stories on both the television and in the newspapers proved it. It was just a fact of life. To believe otherwise was as much fantastical as it was delusional.

Yet Bond movies, as much to my annoyance as my disbelief, weren't marketed as science fiction. 

Even Moonraker, a subject that I don't ever wish to be started on, was simply meant to be another way for the always fabulous Bond to both save the world and get the girl. Now, I know – oddly enough – that movies aren't real, and that if you happen to think they are then, well, there's something not quite right about you. What they are though are a big part of popular culture. Just because you – live under a rock – have never seen Star Wars doesn't mean that you wouldn’t instantly recognise Darth Vader if he popped up on a screen in front of you. You mightn't know what his particular claim to fame was, but you'd still know that he was the 'bad guy' from that 'stupid sci-fi' movie that's everywhere.

It's just one of those curious facts of life. We pick up things, even perfectly pointless things, everywhere whether we're aware of it or not. Take Doctor Who for example. Despite Benji's best efforts to get me to watch it, I've never seen a single episode off the show and while I don't have any intention of this ever changing, I can nonetheless recognise an image of a Dalek a mile off. I know it's from Doctor Who, and that it's evil, and that, for reasons completely unknown, it appears to have what looks to be an egg-beater attached to it as a weapon of some description.

Do I want to be able to recognise a Dalek? No. Not really. But I can. 

And it's because of this, our ability to be... informed (albeit without any actual intent) by the tendrils of pop culture that make up our day to day lives, that people the world over immediately think of James Fucking Bond when they think of either spies or secret service agents. Thanks to Bond, the general consensus is that we just float from mission to mission, only pausing here or there to dust some invisible lint off our bespoke suits or to fuck anything with a pulse and that, hey, at the end of the day we're really just like a better dressed version of the Terminator. 

We're... Inhuman, basically. Impervious to doubt or injury and with our focus divided neatly between the mission and our next sexual encounter. We don't bleed or, if we do, it's only for effect and quickly glossed over, and we certainly don't feel pain.

Bond doesn't. So therefore we can't.

We can't show signs of weakness, or of being – God forbid – only human.

I think of Bond and know that being hit by a car would have had little to no impact on him. Sure, he might have flown spectacularly through the air and, okay, perhaps his suit may have got a little torn up, but that would have been the extent of it. What's more, he would have landed on his feet and simply ran off with his usual speed and elegance. If anything, being hit would have been a minor inconvenience to him, something to be simply shaken off and immediately forgotten about. He wouldn't have any bruises or abrasions, and it goes without saying that there's just no way he would be left feeling sore and sorry for himself afterwards. 

Not Mr Perfect, the public face of agents everywhere.

Okay. Fine. Maybe I did – channel my inner-Bond – immediately get to my feet and stagger off. This, however, had far more to do with self-preservation and the fact the car was already reversing in an attempt to finish me off than it did anything else. I dragged myself upright, mentally shook off my shock, and got the hell out of there because it was what I had to do. Adrenaline took over and I did what I had to do. Not for the mission, but for me. I pushed myself through the pain, in the first instance, solely because I wanted to survive. The mission, and getting myself in a position to shoot the tyres out came a very distant second.

And, again, okay, fine. I did it. I lived up to the expectations of the public at large in regards to how they think people in my position should act, and I both survived and achieved my goal of neutralising the threat. 

Only...

… Unlike Bond, I'm real.

And I hurt.

Nothing's broken, and while I'm fairly confident there's no internal damage that I need to concern myself with, what I am is bruised and battered, and my head feels like it's in danger of exploding from the headache that's building up in it. I've taken pills, and I know that not only will I live but that it could have easily been far worse, but, I don't know, right now it's all just striking me as a bit too much.

I ache, and I'm tired, but instead of just collapsing in bed and pulling the covers over my head, I have to keep going. I have to – call yet again on my inner-Bond – push aside the needs of my body and keep moving forward. Yet...

… I don't know if I can.

All I want, even if it's only for a couple of hours, is to just call a stop to things. I want to stop going over the next sixteen or so hours – and how much they're going to suck – in my head, and I want to sleep, to give my body at least a small reprieve.

But I can't.

Even though this mission is over, I've still got to persevere because we've already been handed our next one. It's not that I'm complaining, as I'm not. It is, after all, what we do. It's just unlike Bond, I really do hurt and the thought of what's in my near future just strikes me as being too much. While under normal circumstances it wouldn't even be something I'd waste my time dwelling on, in my current state it all just falls under the same sort of category as hiking up Mount Everest. In high heels. And wearing nothing other than a pair of Speedos. 

I just...

… It's too much.

Pack up the hotel room. Carry luggage out into the cold, dark and rainy night and catch the tube – all the time hopefully avoiding be constantly bumped into – to Heathrow in order to board a flight to Singapore. A flight on which I'll be jammed into a seat for over twelve hours and which I won't be able to sleep on. And then, once we're on the ground in Singapore, God alone knows what.

Again, it's not that any of this is particularly onerous, and if I hadn't been hit by that damn car I wouldn't be sitting here on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands and would be just lugging my bags out through the door. But...

I did bounce off the bonnet of that car, and not knowing when I'm going to be able to sleep, coupled with the thought of being pushed and shoved on the tube before being stuck on a plane, really is just too much.

Bond, though...

He wouldn't be either shaken... or stirred. No bruises, headache or exhaustion. No real life tedium of having to pack or endure public transport. His world is one of both ease and glamour, whereas ours, the tiresome reality that the public at large are oblivious to, is just one endurance and reality.

The sound of the door handle turning reluctantly drawing me out of 'woe-is-me' thoughts of doom, gloom and my irrational hatred of James Bond, I slowly lift my head and watch with an immediate sense of horror as Ethan walks into the room and drops his two bags on to the floor by the television. 

Er...

… Oops?

Instead of having spent my time packing while Ethan settled up our account at reception like I should have, I've been sitting here feeling sorry for myself, and...

Sprung.

Needless to say Bond would never find himself in such an awkward, embarrassing position.

“Shit!” Dragging myself to my feet, I throw everything I've got into ignoring the howls of complaint being issued forth from just about every inch of my body and, without even really stopping to think about what it is I'm doing, grab my suitcase from the floor and throw it onto the bed. This, the bending, lifting and twisting, naturally causes the pain to reach hitherto unimagined levels but, not wanting to let on to Ethan just how bad things really are, I manfully choke back the urge to groan – or, alternatively, whimper – and settle instead for simply muttering, “Sorry,” under my breath.

“Sorry?” Ethan echoes as he walks over to the bed and, to my surprise, slowly pulls the suitcase out of my reach. “What on earth have you got to be...”

“The room,” I interrupt a tad breathlessly as, undeterred by having the suitcase effectively taken from me, I spin around and take an unsteady step toward the bathroom, “I... I should have had it packed up by now. We... We're going to be late because I...”

“Leave it.” Quickly stepping in front of me, Ethan lightly places his hand on my left shoulder and tries, somewhat unsuccessfully if the unfamiliar look of concern in his eyes is anything to go by, to flash me a casual, unbothered smile.

“But...” Frowning, I make to step around Ethan and, to my growing consternation, am immediately stopped by him gently tightening his hand around my shoulder. “The flight. We're going to miss our flight.”

“There's always another flight,” Ethan replies very much matter-of-factly as, placing his other hand on my right shoulder, he carefully applies just enough pressure for me to get the hint that he wants me to back up. “Come on. Not wanting you to fall down on me, let's get you back on the bed.”

“But...” Too out of it to protest, let alone put up any resistance, I allow Ethan to return me to the spot on the mattress I'd been sitting on when he first entered the room and sigh. “The mission. What about...”

“There's always another mission,” he interjects, crouching down in front of me and resting his hands on my knees. “Listen to me, Will. It's...”

“But... The mission.” One track mind, that's me.

“Having rescinded my acceptance, the mission is now in the hands of Sam Nguyen and his team and we, whether you believe it or not, are now on a break.”

“But...” Pretty sure that I don't believe it and that, for reasons known only to himself, Ethan's feeling the need to toy with my already pretty messed up head, I sigh again and frown down at him. “Jane and Benji. Aren't they already en route to...”

“I got the news to them before they boarded their flight to Singapore and rerouted them to Washington,” Ethan replies, countering my frown with a cautious smile that still seems distinctly at odds with his otherwise concerned expression. “Seriously, Will. You can stop looking at me like that as I give you my word that I'm not fucking with you. We're no longer going to Singapore and, because it's what you clearly need, you're free to go bed and sleep for as long as you like or, perhaps that should be... need.”

“But... I don't...” Something clicking in my mind that Ethan's cancelled the mission for me, I groan and, instead of feeling delighted at knowing that I'm not going to have to soldier on after all, feel an odd sense of both disbelief and dismay.

He...

Oh God.

He effectively refused a mission – proving, I suspect, that there really is a first time for absolutely everything – for me, which means...

“You... You don't have to worry about me!” I exclaim as, having added two and two together and come up with the unpalatable answer of not being deemed 'up to it', I shift away from Ethan and make to stand up. “Just... I'm fine. I'm perfectly capable of doing my job, and...”

“I don't doubt that for a second,” Ethan states, giving me what can be best described as a fond look as he gets to his feet and, after once again placing his hands on my shoulders, slowly guides me back down on to the edge of the bed. “If we stuck to our original plan and went straight from here to Singapore,” he continues, taking a seat on the mattress next to me, “I know for a fact that you would have given it your all. You wouldn't have hesitated to do all that was asked of you and, as I've come to take for granted, I'd have known that you had my back.”

“Then...” God help me. It's not as though I want to be feeling this dense, but I'm just not sure I understand what's going on here. Despite apparently trusting me to do my job, Ethan's nonetheless cancelled the mission because...? “I know I've been in better shape, but I would have...”

“You would have,” he confirms with a nod, “but you don't have to. I know you would have pushed on, but what I also know is that you have to be in pain and, more importantly than anything, need to rest.”

“But, I...”

“You're really not getting it, are you?” Ethan murmurs, giving me a bemused look as, inching closer, he drapes his arm around my shoulders and very gently pulls me against him. “While there are always more flights, and these days I think missions are never ending, what there's only one of, William, is you. You're unique and, clarity coming at the strangest damn moments, what I realised today as I watched you bounce off that car, is that you mean the world to me. Not IMF, you,” he continues very much matter-of-factly. “You're the reason I keep going and... you're also the reason we're still sitting here instead of heading towards Heathrow. You... Your health and recovery has to come before anything else, and... uh... that, simply, is all there is to it.”

Leaning, even though I can't for the life of me work out what's going on here, instinctively against Ethan, I blink at him owlishly and, as my mind struggles to make sense of it all, issue forth with a truly profound, not to mention oddly... squeaky... sounding, “Me?” 

“Mmm... You.” Cocking his head to the side, he looks me in the eye and, with the corners of his lips twitching into a grin, murmurs, “You see, it's your superior intellect and the way you're always on the ball. It just... gets... to me.”

“Huh?” I'm sorry. I really am. I mean, I want to both follow what Ethan's saying and be on the same page as he's clearly on, but I'm just not getting it. Not fully, at any rate. I can just about grasp that we're not having to go to Singapore and will, in fact, be soon be able to crawl in to bed and finally put this day behind me, but, the... why? That I'm not really getting at all.

For...

… Me?

Ethan, IMF's poster child for putting the greater good above and beyond absolutely everything else, cancelled a mission because...

… I come first?

I just don't get it, and the reason I'm struggling to get my head around it is, I suspect, because...

… I want so badly for it to be true.

“I... I don't...” Falling silent, I gaze somewhat helplessly at Ethan and, pretty much solely for the wont of anything better to do, sigh softly and give a slow shake of my head.

“Will?” His grin slipping, Ethan gives me a worried look and hesitates over removing his arm from around my shoulders. “If I've said the wrong thing, or... uh... offended you, then...”

“You...” Shaking my head again, I reach across my chest and, as my body tells me in no uncertain terms that I've now twisted it in a way that it doesn't currently approve of, place my hand over Ethan's. “You haven't said the wrong thing or offended me at all,” I murmur, “and I know I'm being astonishingly dense here and no doubt making you regret ever having opened your mouth, but...” Trailing off as I realise that I honestly have absolutely no idea what to say, I shrug and blurt out the first – random as fuck – thing that pops into my head, “Luther!”

“Luther?” Ethan echoes as his expression changes to an odd combination of taken aback, concern, and confusion. “Dare I ask what... exactly... Luther has to doing with anything?”

Ethan's question being quite a reasonable one, all things considered, I gaze down at my lap and, once again going with the first thing to pop into my addled head, mumble, “He.. he's your best friend.”

“He's one of my best friends, yes, but I still don't follow what he's got to do...”

“He...” Pulling my hand away from Ethan's, I hug my arms loosely around my chest and, still without any real clear idea where it is I think I'm going with this, whisper, “He hates me.”

Although he's too slow to stop a knee-jerk, muffled snort of laughter slipping past his lips, Ethan nevertheless tightens his arm around my shoulders and plants a quick, fleeting kiss on the top of my head. “He doesn't hate you,” he clarifies with another genuinely amused sounding laugh. “He's still just a little unsure of you, that's all. Don't take it personally, though. It's just how he is. Cantankerous and hard to get on with.”

“But...” Lifting my head, I give Ethan a miserable look. “He's your friend...”

“Yes. He is. But I already covered that and you're not for a second to think that it's a case of either him or you as, believe me, the list of people I trust being small enough as it is, there's plenty of room for both of you on it. Besides...” Pausing, Ethan stretches out his free hand and lightly trails his fingers down the side of my face. “Out of the two of you, it's not thoughts of getting back to Luther that kept me going while hunting The Syndicate, and... uh... nor is he the one I've ever imagined naked...”

“Oh...” Something in my brain finally clicking in to the 'on' – oh-my-God-sing-it-from-the-rooftops-this-is-really-happening! – position, I push all thoughts of not only Luther but also all the doubt I've harboured about him out of my head and flash Ethan a tentative smile. “You've imagined me naked?” I query just a tad facetiously as I unfold my arms and rest my hand down on his thigh.

“If I had, would that bother you?” he replies, returning my smile with a hopeful one of his own.

“Far less,” I retort, my smile broadening, “than it would have if you'd confessed to having had those particular thoughts about Luther.”

“So...” His smile slipping away, Ethan frowns and gives me an odd, possibly even nervous look. “What you're saying, then, is that it... does... bother you. Will... I...”

“What bothers me,” I hurriedly interrupt, “isn't that you've had such thoughts at all. In fact, I'm all for hearing such a confession and may even be swayed to own up to having the same sort of thoughts about you. What... does... bother me though is your timing.”

“My timing?”

“Mmm... Think about it.”

“I am thinking about it, yet... all I'm coming up with is the sneaky suspicion that your vagueness appears to be contagious as, seriously, I'm just not following.”

“My body? The one you've imagined naked? It's currently covered in bruises that I don't even want to look at myself, let alone inflict on anyone else,” I reply with both a heartfelt sigh and a rueful look. “Not to mention the small fact of life of it only being up for one thing at the moment and that's sleep. Followed, most likely, by more sleep. So... Your timing, it...”

“Sucks?” Ethan offers as, looking relieved, he rubs his hand warmly along my upper arm.

“I was going to go with... leaves a bit to be desired, myself, but... Yeah. Sucks covers it too.”

“How about we just err on the side of 'good things come to those who wait', then?”

“Patience is a virtue?”

“That too.”

“You know, as wonderful as all of this and, believe me, now that I've finally grasped what's happening, it really is wonderful, I... still could have done without having been run over.”

“Funnily enough, I could have done without that, too.”

“And you're not the one currently feeling about fifty years older than when he got up this morning!”

“Not physically, no. Mentally, however...”

“I...” Realising that the time for light heartedness is over, I curl my fingers around the inner seam of Ethan's jeans and rest my head down on his chest. “Just... Thank you,” I whisper. “Thank you for your epiphany, and for cancelling the mission, and, most of all, thank you for both speaking up and... uh... pushing on in the face of my vagueness. Needless to say I'd love for things to be different, but at the same time, this... this in its own way is close to perfect.”

And it is, too.

Unexpected. Heartfelt. A wonderfully unique beginning that I know we'll both always remember and which, bruises and headache aside, I wouldn't change a thing about even if I could.

Bond?

Pah.

I'd take this version of perfection over his any day.

~ end ~


End file.
